Patch
by Grasspaw
Summary: Two years before the newsies go on strike, Jack meets a small boy named Patch. Patch was just a regular kid, except for his Irish accent, his "blessed" his left arm, and his closely guarded secrets...
1. Chapter 1

**My first Newsies fanfic. Enjoy. I own nothing.**

A fifteen year old Jack Kelly had just bought his newspapers and was sitting down to read them when he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up. Most of the newsboys in the area had already come and gotten their papes, but now there was a small boy walking through the gates.

The boy looked to be only about ten or so, short and thin. He had dark red hair that was cut somewhat raggedly and brown eyes. He looked calm, confident, and careless, but as he drew nearer Jack saw that his eyes looked alert and wary. He watched a few more stragglers buy their papes as though unsure how to go about it. Finally, he stepped forward.

"Thir'y papes," he said with a heavy Irish accent. Weasel placed the newspapers on the counter and the boy reached into his pocket, pulled out a few coins, and handed them over. He then awkwardly lifted the bundle using only his right arm and walked over the the group of reading older boys.

Jack had just finished reading and was standing up to leave when he felt someone bump into him. He looked down in surprise to see the small Irish kid. "'Scuse me," the boy said.

"Yeah?" Jack asked.

"What does the headline say?"

"You can't read?"

The boy shook his head sheepishly. "Nay. I never needed to know how, and me family has'na been here long enough to learn."

Jack sat down again. He patted the sidewalk next to him to indecate that the boy should sit down. He did, though he looked even more wary his papes down in his lap. "What's your name?" Jack asked.

"Patch. You?"

"Jack. This your first time selling papes?"

"Aye. I don'a really know how to go abou' it."

"Well, why don't you just hang around with me today? I can show you how to sell your papes and make a good bit of money."

"Well..." Patch looked nervous at the thought of going with Jack and almost ready to say no. But, for some reason that he could not explain, Patch made jack curious and he wanted to know more about him. So, he added, "I'll teach you to read, too."

Patch's eyes widened. "Ye _will?"_

Jack grinned. "Yep. So, what do you say?"

Patch grinned shyly. Jack didn't know it was possible to grin shyly. "Aye. Let's do it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Howdy doo. Okay, um, I just realized that I know very few people's names from the movie. I only know Jack, Spot, Dave and Less, Boots, Mush, Crutchie, kid with eye-patch, kid with cigar, kid that looks like my brother's friend, Weasel, the Delancey brothers, and Kloppman. So if someone could just tell me a newsie's name, where they show up in the movie, and (if possible) a line that they say and when they say it, it'd be greatly appreciated. Thanks a bunch! I own nothing.**

Jack stood up, spat on his hand, and held it out. Patch stood up too, though he looked confused. Jack tried to keep a straight face. "Ya spit on your hand, then shake," he said, giving in and grinning.

"Oh," Patch replied, looking surprised and baffled. He set his papers down and, spitting on it first, held out his right hand. They shook, then Patch bent down to pick up his papes. Jack looked at him curiously. Patch was trying to get his right hand under them to pick them up, without much success. Finally, Jack bent down, picked them up, and handed them to Patch. The small boy looked embarrased. "Thanks," he muttered, looking at his feet.

Being the entirely tactless person that he is, Jack asked, "How come you weren't using your left hand?" He had an idea what the answer was, but he wanted to make sure. Patch muttered something that Jack couldn't hear. "Come again?" Jack prompted.

"It doesn't work," Patch said again. His voice was strangely guarded and wary.

"Oh. How come?"

"Born with it." His tone was final, stating more clearly than words that the conversation was over. They walked along some more, Jack selling his papes quickly, Patch trying to figure out exactly how to.

It was just after lunch (or, when people who could afford to eat had lunch, meaning not the newsies) when Jack looked down at Patch. Jack himself was used to not eating, but he wasn't sure how Patch would hold up. However, the small boy looked quite unconcerned, wandering around after Jack. He had his lips puckered in a peculiar fashion, blowing out of them so that his cheeks puffed up. Clearly, he was unable to whistle. Jack hid a smile, selling another pape.

Patch still had twenty-three of his original thirty left, but this fact didn't seem to bother him. He was still trying to whistle, now crossing his eyes at the same time as though trying to look at his mouth and see what he was doing wrong.

Two old (well, if not old, then old_er_) women were walking by as Patch tried, again unsuccesfully, to whistle. He came out with a noise somewhere between a sneeze and a squeal. One of the woman giggled, tapped her companion on the shoulder, and pointed at Patch. "Look at that adorable little boy!" she said in a very audible whisper. Jack, seeing his chance, nudged Patch in the direction of the woman. The Irish boy walked forward shyly.

"Buy a pape?" he said, holding them out. The two women agreed, and Patch pocketed the money, smiling a large, toothy grin that took over his whole face. The two women walked away, beaming and talking about "that adorable little Irish boy". Jack grinned.

"I sold two!" Patch crowed. As this was his first day on the job, he was excited about every sale he made. The women and the whistling had given Jack an idea. He looked Patch over appraisingly. "Good job. But we gotta get ya a sling," he replied.

Patch looked confused. "A what?"

"A sling. Ya know, to hang yer arm up."

"Why?" Didn't Patch know _anything_ about selling papes?

"Because, people'll wanna buy more if ya look all sweet and pathetic like. And try ta whistle like dat, too."

"But..." Patch sounded scared. "I-I don'a want people knowing that I can'a use me arm."

Jack looked at him, confused. "Why not?"

But, before Patch could answer, someone from the street yelled, "Patrick!" His eyes widened. "Run!" he whispered and sprinted off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi! Thanks to everyone who gave me the names of the newsies, I really appreciate it.**

Patch could run pretty fast, Jack decided as soon as he caught up with him. Also, for someone who apparently had not been in the country long enough to learn to read, he knew his way about the streets surprisingly well. They sprinted down the street in one direction, shoving roughly past people. They had been running for a few minutes, and Jack was panting slightly, but Patch seemed perfectly fine. He did not slow, only stopping for a split second to look behind him.

Suddenly, he dived off to the side, into a narrow alley. Jack, with the quick reflexes of someone born and raised on the streets, went right after him without a moments hesitation.

He paused and looked around him. Light seemed unable to reach into this place, and it took him a moment to adjust his eyes from the bright sunlight to the dimness of the alley. He blinked a few times and looked around. He couldn't see Patch anywhere.

And then, just like that, he heard someone snort. He spun around with his hands up in front of his face, always prepared for a fight, when he saw a small, lithe form step out of the shadows. Patch. The little boy still had his papes under one arm. "Come on," he said, heading towards a rusty old ladder. He started climbing, though _how _was entirely beyond Jack, for of course Patch could use only his right arm, which still had most of his papes under it.

Jack followed. Patch definitely had an interesting way of getting up. He could hang on with his right arm, get his feet planted firmly on a rung, and swing himself up so fast that Jack could barely see him move. He would step up a rung, then repeat the process. Jack followed, his own papes under his arm, though he could use both arms.

Finally, after climbing for a while, they reached the roof of the building. Patch clambered on to it, dropping his papes on a plank of wood, and walked to the middle of it, where there was an old rug, rolled tightly up. Patch sat down in front of it and leaned back, staring at the air with thoughtful, angry, though slightly amused look on his face. Jack, after placing his own papes next to Patch's, sat down next to the Irish boy.

"What is this place?" he asked curiously, looking around. There were many random items lying around on the rooftop: an old chair with a missing leg, a mildewing chest, some moth-eaten clothes lying in a heap. "And what happened back there?"

Patch chose to ignore Jack's second question, instead answering his first. "Well, when me family first came to here, I couldn'a stand all o' the tall buildings. We lived out in the country before now." He paused, a dreamy, happy expression on his face, and said to himself, "i bhfad níos mó seomra." His eyes widened, and he shook his head slightly, muttering something under his breath. Jack looked on, confused. Patch stared ahead with his eyes wide open as though to dry them out, and his voice shook as he continued, his Irish accent more pronaounced than ever, "But then we came here, and I could hardly breathe for the closeness o' e'rythin'. Then one day, I was walkin' aroun', trying to find me way to me fam'ly's new home, and I took a wrong turn, an' then I was here. And I could breathe again, and it all looked smaller," he concluded, smiling slightly.

Jack was confused. They were only one or two, three at the most, stories up, and he could still see the taller buildings above them no matter what direction he looked in. He looked at Patch, his confusion showing plainly on his face, and Patch's smile grew. "That way," he said softly, pointing with his right hand off into the distance. Jack looked, and caught his breath. He could see the horizon off into the distance, just a little bit of it, but it was there. A single beam of sunlight came from in between two tall buildings, like a spotlight shining directly on the area. The sky was so blue in that direction... It was beautiful. Just looking at it, the noise of the street below seemed to quiet down, and he felt himself relaxing.

Patch's smile became a triumphant grin, but when he spoke his voice was soft and gentle, matching the sight perfectly. "I told ye so."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello again! It's me (but you probably guessed that already). I own nothing.**

That evening, after Jack had sold all of his papes and Patch only had a few left, they sat down for Patch's first reading lesson. Jack, who had never actually _taught _anyone how to read, scratched his head, unsure how to start. How had his mother taught him to read, so many years ago? He tried to remember while Patch looked at him expectantly. "Uh... Do ya know da alphibet?" he tried.

Patch appeared to be thinking hard. After a minute or two, he said slowly, "A, B, C, D, E, an' F." He looked pleased with himself until he saw the look on Jack's face. "Is there more?" he sighed, disappointed.

Jack, catching the disappointment, tried to cheer him up. "Naw, just a few," he said encouragingly. Patch raised his eyebrows, disbelief sketched on his face. Jack sighed. "Okay, okay, dere's a _lot _more. Twen'y, really."

Patch groaned.

However, despite his disappointment, he caught on quickly. By the time they were done for evening about thirty minutes later, Patch had memorized many of the letters, all the way up to T. He grinned. "This ain't so hard, a'ter all."

Jack grinned back at him. "Nope. Just a few more and you got it." He stood, stretching his tired muscles.

Patch followed suit, yawning widely. He absently rubbed his left arm right below his shoulder, looking thoughtful. Then he looked at his left arm, noticed what he was doing, and snatched his hand away as though he had been burned. He then nervously looked around, biting his lip. Jack, noticing for the first time how dark it was, offered, "You can sleep in the boardin' house wid us guys." The thought of Patch walking alone in the dark made him feel slightly apprehensive, though for the life of him he couldn't explain why.

However, to Jack's surprise, Patch said forcefully, "_No." _He saw the confused look on Jack's face, and added hurredly, "I mean, uh, I have to go home. Me, um, me Ma and Da might be worried."

Jack nodded. He remembered, back when he had been a little boy, how his parents had been worried about him when he was out too late. He clapped Patch on the back. "Alright. See ya tomorrow, Patch?"

Patch nodded eagerly. "Aye. Tomorrow." He turned and walked off into the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**I own nothing.**

Patch did come the next day, and the next, and the next. After a month or so, he had been accepted by the other newsies as one of their own, though many of them still teased Jack about his "little brother" and his slightly over-protective air about the Irish boy.

Patch was also progressing rapidly in his reading. After a week and a half, he read proudly, though in a slow, halting voice, the headline.

Three weeks after that, Patch came in the gate. He always got there about five or ten minutes late, and the other newsies looked up. "Heya, Patch," Boots greeted him. Patch was two years older than the other boy, but they were, if not friends, at least friend_ly. _

Patch was like that with may of the boys. None of them could really call themselves Patch's friends, partly because they weren't, and partly because it was entirely unmanly. Jack was the only one who admitted being Patch's friend, and vice versa. This would have caused the other newsies to tease him even more, except that Jack had perfected his "Death Glare".

Patch walked up to Weasel, first shooting Boots, Jack, and the other newsies a quick grin. He said, "Fifteh papes," and reached into his pocket to fish out his change while Weasel placed the papes on the counter and waited.

But something was wrong. Patch's eyes had widened, a horrified look on his face. He reached into another pocket. He tried them all while the newsies looked on curiously and Weasel glared. Patch started breathing hard, and the horrified look was replaced by one of anger. "níor ghéill sé orlach," he muttered. "_He. Didn't."_

"Look, kid," Weasel growled. "Are ya gonna pay, or not?"

"Never mind," Patch snapped, turning on his heel and storming off. He continued muttering Gaelic under his breath, glaring at the air. He walked past the other newsies without even glancing at them. Jack shared a baffled look with the others. None of the had ever seen Patch lose his temper like that.

Jack stood, stretched leisurely, and followed Patch out of the gates, carrying his papes on his shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

**I own nothing.**

Patch ran as soon as he was out of sight from the distribution center and the other newsies. He wouldn't let them see him cry, he told himself. He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry, he wasn't going to...

But he couldn't help it. The tears were streaming down his face; he didn't try to wipe them away for he knew they would just keep coming. Without even thinking about it, he felt his feet taking him to the alley. He was climbing the ladder, then running over to the rolled up carpet and collapsing on it. The wind was blowing hard; he was cold but he barely felt it.

How could he do this to him? Patch was shocked. He had known that the man was fighting, struggling to be free, and it had seemed he was winning, too. Until he took Patch's money. Why? _Why?_

He didn't know how long he was up there. But when he finally crawled to the edge of the roof and looked down into the street, there were not many people around. It wasn't that late, so it was probably around lunch time. He could see some boys talking in front of a building, and he recognized a few of the faces. There was Jack, and Blink, and Crutchie... Suddenly, just like that, Jack looked up at Patch's little area on the roof. Patch ducked his head, but he knew Jack had seen him.

When he looked up again, Jack had said something to the other boys and was heading over. The others were walking off.

Patch hoped his eyes weren't still red.

Jack's head appeared over the edge. "Shoulda looked up here in da foist place," he commented, pulling himself up. He walked over and sat next to Patch on the carpet. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Jack shot him a sidelong glance. "I been lookin' ev'rywhere for ya," he said awkwardly. It wasn't really in his nature to _be _worried about someone, much less _admit _it.

"Hmm," was all Patch said, staring off into space. His nose was running, and he wiped his arm across it. It didn't help.

Jack just stared. He had thought that Patch never stopped smiling. He had never seen him shed a single tear, much less sob like he had been earlier. Of course, Jack had lost sight of him soon after he walked out of the gate, but he had seen the small Irish boy's shoulders shaking as he ran. Jack had hardly ever seen him be angry, either. Ocasionally he would snap at some one, but Jack had never seen such a fury as crossed his face that morning.

But Patch didn't seem to be angry now. But he definetly wasn't happy, either. Then again, he didn't seem sad. No, he seemed... resigned? Whatever had happened that morning, he seemed to have accepted it. Jack opened his mouth to ask exactly what that was.

However, before he could say anything, Patch started talking. He hadn't been looking at Jack, but he seemed to have been expecting it. "I can'na tell ye, Jack," he said softly.

"Why not?" Jack was worried about his little friend.

Patch didn't answer for several moments. When he spoke, he seemed to be choosing his words with care. "Because nobody can know. It'sa secret." He sounded sad.

Jack looked at him. The poor kid, he seemed to be fighting tears again. Jack sighed. He would let it go for now, but he would find out soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, if anyone bothered to look up what Patch said in Gaelic in chapter five, it translates to, "He didn't give an inch." This does not actually mean anything. I was trying to get just plain old "He didn't", but that was the closest I could find. Sorry if anyone was confused. I'm going to try and make it fit in somehow, but who knows? Oh yeah, and this story was apparently nominated for some contest (I am currently unable to remember the name, but there ya go). So, if it gets to the voting period place spot thingy, vote for me! I don't know what all else you guys are supposed to do. I own nothing.**

Patch didn't show up the next day. Jack kept his eyes out for him as he sold his papes, but the boy never showed up. Strange.

However, in the evening, about an hour before Jack would head back to the Lodging House, he decided to check up on the roof. He had checked there that morning and found nothing, but he figured once more wouldn't hurt. As he climbed the ladder, he could only wounder why Patch hadn't showed up. He hoped Patch would be there, but he still wasn't. Jack sighed and started down the ladder again.

In another thirty minutes he had sold all but one of his papes, but he didn't want to go back to the Lodging house just yet. He wasn't tired, and he didn't feel like talking to anyone.

As he was walking past some restoraunt, he spotted a man walking out. Even though he had been too lazy to try and sell his last one before, he decided he might as well try again. He walked over to the man. It was late, and he had probably already read the papers, but hey, why not try?

"Buy a pape?" he asked, walking up to the man. The man glanced at him, exasperation spelled out clearly on his face. Jack didn't really feel like "improving the truth" right then, so he decided to go for pity. "Please, sir, my ma's sick, and my dad ain't makin' enough in the fact'ry to get a doctah and I gotta make enough money to help out..."

Jack could swear the man's eyes just melted. "You remind me of my own son," the man said, smiling sympathetically, and Jack fought the urge to smirk. A family man. Perfect. He handed Jack a penny, and Jack gave him the paper.

jack suddenly thought of Patch. He had asked a few costumers if they had seen the little Irish boy, but none had. He might as well try again. "Hey, sir?" he asked. The man had already started walking again, and Jack just went right after him. The man stopped and turned to Jack. "Have ya seen a kid around? 'Bout that tall, reddish brownish heah(hair), brown eyes? Irish accent?"

The man was looking uncomfortable now. "Er, well, no." He sighed. "Well, yes, actually. This morning I was walking down this street, I don't remember the exact one, but it was by that french restorant? Yes, yes, and as I was walking by, this little boy that matches your description jumped out and stuck his hand in my pocket."

_Stealing? _That didn't sound like Patch. "W-what'd ya do?"

"Well, I shoved him off and kept on walking. I was late for an appointment, and I didn't check if he was alright." The man looked distinctly uneasy now, but Jack didn't really care about him. He was already running.


	8. Chapter 8

**I own nothing.**

Jack was running, going through a mental checklist in his mind. He knew of three French restaurants, and at least seven different alleys near each. He tried to think and found he couldn't. His feet guided him to the first restaurant, the one closest to here he was. He looked in one of the alleys. Nothing that he could see. He ran to the next one. Nothing there, either.

When he had tried all of the alleys on that street, he ran as fast as he could to the next French restaurant and searched there. But it was getting dark, and harder to see. He would have to thoroughly search each alley to make sure Patch wasn't in them. As he passed each one, he would search it, calling out desperately, "Patch?"

As he checked one just past the restaraunt, he saw something sticking out from behind a dumpster. It looked curiously like a foot... Without a second though, Jack sprinted forward. His breath caught in his throat. _Patch._

But it wasn't Patch as Jack knew him. No, this Patch looked small, tiny and vulnerable. His hands and feet were dirtier than usual, and, the worst change, one side of his face was covered in blood.

* * *

Earlier...

* * *

Patch was trying to find some money. That evil, _evil_ man had taken all of his, and he needed more. This could have been pretty easy, but he refused to steal, or even beg. He was sick and tired of begging people for money, for he rembered how it felt, crouching on the cobblestones and begging for a scrap of food, a penny, and he had no wish to return to that place.

So, he decided to search for some spare change that someone might have dropped. He started in the alleys, where he knew people fought contantly, causing change to fall out of their pockets. He had found a nickel and two pennies all morning, and it was nearing lunch. At this rate, it would be several days before he could afford even a small meal, much less provide for his family as well.

As he was walking out of an alley, where he had found, oh, wonder of wonders, another nickel, he tripped on a stone jutting up from the ground. He flailed his arms desperately, trying to grab onto something to stop his fall, but all that was nearby was a man, walking quickly by. Without thinking, Patch grabbed at his jacket, trying to keep his balance. However, as things would have it, his hand went into the man's wide pocket. The man was walking so fast that he accidentally dragged Patch forward several steps before he noticed it and before Patch could remove his hand.

Then the man turned to look at Patch. He shot him one disgusted glance, shoved him back, and walked on. He didn't care about one little street rat.

But when Patch fell, he landed hard on his back, banging his head against the rock he had tripped over in the first place. He sat up slowly, feeling a warm flow of blood running down the back of his head. Trying to make it stop bleeding, he rubbed his arm across it, but he only succeeded in smearing it across his face as well.

He couldn't stand, and he was in the way on the sidewalk, so he crawled back into the alley, behind the dumpster. "Lofa," he muttered under his breath. "Lofa, lofa, _lofa_."

He only meant to rest against the wall for a minute or two, until he felt better, but one or two minutes became five... His head was throbbing, maybe just a little longer... He was feeling strangely dizzy, even sitting down. Maybe he should wait a bit more... His eyelids were so heavy, maybe he could just stay there for a little while longer...

And, before he knew it, Patch was asleep, blood running down his back now too. After a few minutes, the flow of blood slowed and was a mere trickle, but he had lost a lot...


	9. Chapter 9

**I own nothing.**

Jack tried not to think. If he thought, he was afraid that the barriers he had so carefully constructed around himself might just come crashing down. He just bent down, placed one arm under Patch's knees, the other around his shoulders, and lifted him so that the boy was reclining in his arms. Cowboy knew there was a need for speed, but it was in the back of his head that going _too _fast might harm Patch more then it would help him, if he was jolted too roughly.

As he jogged towards the newsboys lodging house, he tried to think of what might have happened. His anxious mind came up with all kinds of scenarios, each more wild and unbelievable than the last. He glanced down at the small Irish boy in his arms. Patch was pale. He had a slight tan, leftover from living on a farm, but now he looked sickly.

"Ain't hard ta believe 'e's sick," Jack muttered under his breath. Patch's right arm lay limply across his stomach, the left one was hanging down and swaying as Jack moved. His entire body trembled slightly with every step Jack took. Jack looked up again, feeling he was going to be sick.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he sighted the lodging house. Two or three of the boys were outside, talking and smoking. "Heya, Jack," Race greeted him. "What'cha got dere?"

"Move it, Race," was all that he could get out.

Race smirked around his cigar. "Why? What'cha got? I asked ya a question. I-" He drew silent as he saw what Jack was carrying, and hurriedly opened the door for him.

Jack stepped inside the building. "Where's Kloppman?"

Race thought, shooting Patch worried and wondering glances. "Eh... I dunno."

Jack didn't waste time. "Blink!" he roared. About thirty seconds later, Blink appeared at the top of the stairs.

Being more levelheaded and quick thinking than many newsies, Blink didn't waste time either. "Upstairs," he snapped. He was usually a kind, easygoing person, patient and always ready with a smile, but when Kloppman wasn't around, he was pretty much in charge of all injuries. And in a case like this... Well, he was just a little uptight.

Once they were standing upstairs in the bunkroom, Jack said, "I'll put him in my bed."

"No," Blink replied. "He's gotta go in mine. Yours's on da top bunk. Mine ain't. He'll be easiuh ta get to."

Jack shrugged, causing Patch to shift slightly in his arms. He shot him a worried glance. He started walking to Blink's bed. He waited while Blink quickly adjusted the pillows so that Patch would be able to lie down comfortably, then he placed the unconscious boy on the bed. "Go get a chair," Blink snapped. "I ain't standin' awl night."

When Jack returned, carrying one of the old wooden chairs from downstairs, he saw that Blink had gotten a wet washcloth from the bathroom and was gently cleaning the bloody areas on Patch's head. He looked up as Jack drew nearer. "Put da chair right dere," he said, sounding weary, "and go grab a clean sheet or sumptin and make some sorta bandages. He's still bleedin'."

Jack couldn't find a very clean sheet, but he did manage to find an old shirt. Not really caring whose it was, he ripped it into strips and went back over to Blink. Blink was sitting in the chair, still trying to clean up all the blood. His face was expressionless. He looked up as Jack handed him the strips of old shirts. "Tanks," he said tiredly, gently lifting Patch's head up to wrap the rags around the boys head. He finished, gently laying the boy back on the pillow. Patch looked even paler.

The two boys stared at him in silence for a few minutes before Blink looked up at Jack. "What _happened?"_ he demanded. Then, before Jack could open his mouth to answer, Blink continued, "Siddown. Yer shakin'."

Jack sat on the bed next to Blink's, feeling sick. As he told the story of what the man had told him, he saw Blink look shocked. "But, _Patch?" _Blink asked in disbelief. _"Stealing? _Dere ain't no way."

"Dat's what I tink," Jack answered. "But who knows? Right now, dat guy's story's da only one we got, Blink."


	10. Chapter 10

**I own nothing. And sorry, it's a really short chapter, but it happens, ya know? Whatever...**

Jack and Blink didn't sleep that whole night. There wasn't really much to do for Patch, but they wanted to be awake in case something happened. As other newsies trickled in to go to sleep, they could only guess what had happened. Jack and Blink were just sitting (or, in Jack's case, standing) there and staring at Patch. Occasionally Blink would send Jack to go get something.

Around two in the morning, Patch moved. It wasn't very noticable, but Jack was staring at the boy intently with his tired eyes. Blink was dozing in his chair.

Patch stirred slightly. A soft sigh escaped his lips, and he just barely stretched his right leg out. "Blink," Jack hissed, grabbing his arm. Blink muttered something unintelligible. "Blink!" Jack repeated, slightly louder.

Blink jumped. "Wuzzat?"

"It's Patch."

Blink rapidly opened and closed his eyes a few times and looked at the small Irish boy asleep in the bed. Patch was opening and closing his mouth, as though talking, but no noise escaped his lips. He looked scared, and even though his eyes were closed, the two teenage boys watching him could tell that he was glancing nervously from side to side in his sleep.

Jack and Blink watched him in silence. When Patch calmed down slightly, taking quick, shallow breaths, Blink cautiously reached out and felt the small boy's forehead with the back of his hand. Patch moaned quietly and attempted to pull away. Jack started forward, but Blink shook his head. "Nah," he said quietly, for everyone else was asleep. "Just leave 'im. He's gotta sleep." Jack nodded and leaned against the bedpost, his eyes drooping. He fought back a yawn, and Blink looked at him in amusement. "Mebbe you should get ta bed too," he commented dryly, causing Jack to glare at him.

"I ain't tired," he hissed back, but his words were distorted by another yawn. Blink unwillingly mimicked him.

"Hey," the (adorable) boy with the eyepatch snapped. "Don't staht (start) yawnin'. You'll get me awl tired, too."

"Well, I ain't gonna sleep, if dat's whatcha mean."

"Well, den," Blink replied, recognizing a hopeless cause. He stood. "At least take da chair. Ya been standin' awl night."

Jack refused, glaring. "Nah. I ain't gotta sidown. Ise fine."

They continued arguing, for no reason other than that they were tired and worried about Patch, causing their tempers to flare. By some miracle, their bickering did not wake the other newsies. However, it apparently bothered Patch, for the boy moaned again. They both turned to look at him. His mouth was moving again, but now he was speaking.

"é gortaigh mise..." he whispered feverishly. "Máthair..." Blink looked at Jack in confusion, but all Jack could do was shrug. While he was around Patch very often, the boy rarely spoked Irish in front of him, and refused to explain the few words that did slip out. Whenever he did speak Irish, he seemed terrified that someone was watching him. He would pull his head in close like a turtle and get up close to Jack, glancing around nervously. Jack would put a comforting arm around Patch's shoulders and sell a few more papes, for when the Irish boy was like this, he looked quite pathetic, arousing sympathy from customers. And while Jack did feel just the _tiniest _bit ashamed of using Patch like that, he needed to if he was ever going reach Santa Fe.

Patch just barely turned his head to the side, muttering, "Ma... me arm..."


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry... I own nothing. **

Blink and Jack glanced at each other. "His arm?" Jack repeated, confused. "What about 'is arm?"

Blink shrugged. "Ya got me. You know 'im better dan I do."

Jack didn't reply, merely staring at the small Irish boy as Patch continued. "Ma... ma... can'... can'... feel..." Here he went off into a stream of Irish, and eventually trailed off into to silence.

"'Can' feel'?" Jack echoed. "He said he ain't nevah been able ta feel it."

"So again _I _say, you know 'im better dan I do."

"Yeah, I guess..."

Patch stirred a few times after that, but he didn't say anything. By the time Kloppman came up the stairs at six, Jack had gone back to bed, first making Blink promise to wake him up if Patch said anything again. But Patch was silent.

* * *

A few hours later, Patch woke up, but he didn't move or open his eyes. His head was throbbing in a steady tempo, and his entire body felt sore and cramped. Well, his entire body except for his left arm, but that was nothing new... He stopped himself. He was not going to go that way. He was going to forget it. It hurt too much to remember. After all, it had been six years...

He _could _still remember that day, no matter how hard he tried to forget. His father, his athair, had come home in one of his drunken rages after being out all night. He and his little sister, Nory, had crouched in the corner of the shack that was their home, wishing their athair would fall asleep. Patch, only four, had tried to shield Nory when the man came close to them, but he just shouted something unintelligible and grabbed Patch, no, he was Patrick back then... Well, he had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the corner, yelling curses a the men who had taken his money, his idiotic son who couldn't do anything, and his stupid little girl who looked too much like her spineless mother...

He fumbled around the room, still dragging Patrick, until he came to a knife. It was a fancy knife, with a carved handle (Patch could never remember what that part was called), and a nice, shiny blade that his mother, his máthair, polished every day. Patrick wondered what his athair wanted with it.

But when he picked it up and turned to stare at his son, his meaning became all too clear, even to a four year old. He screamed, then, before the knife even came down, and desperately tried to turn away.

That probably saved his life.

The man had been aiming for Patrick's throat or chest, but because he had turned away, the knife had gone into his left arm. Patch could still feel the blade cutting through his muscles, the baby fat on his arms... His mother had been hiding in another spot, but now, before the drunken man could plunge the knife in a second time, she ran forward and grabbed her son, who was crying and screaming. They didn't live near any other houses, so no one heard them...

Patrick hadn't been able to move for days after that night, and he had barely been able to sit up for more then a few minutes for weeks. Another few months before he could walk around. But he could never use his arm again, and was left with a thick, rope-like scar running from right below his should to just past the inside of his elbow.

When his athair was sober again, and had seen what he had done, he had stopped drinking. He was sick and angry a lot, for a long time, but he beat it. He hadn't stopped gambling, though. One day he lost so much money at the local tavern, he had told them they had to leave. He was too far in debt, and the only way to save his wife and children from starvation was to run away.

They moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Not a very far move, to be sure, but for a little five year old with his arm in a sling and a pack on his back, it felt like a million miles.

In a few days they found a cheap apartment building, and his parents got jobs. His mathair got pregnant and had a new baby; a boy named Sean. He had flaming red hair, like his father and sister. Patrick and his mother's was more brown.

Patrick's athair had men over most nights, and they would do something with a bunch of cards and money while Patrick, his arm still in a sling, served them drinks and little bits of food that his mathair scraped together. The other men drank some, they always brought drinks with them, and after a little while Patrick's athair started drinking again. He tried not to, but sometimes he just couldn't keep himself away from it.

One night, when Patrick was nine, his father came home with some of his friends. They drank and gambled and laughed raucously at stupid jokes. Patrick's mother, Nory, and Sean stayed in the back room, but Patrick had to stay out with the men or his father would be angry. That night his athair lost a _lot _of money, much more than usual. The men were buddies, and told him he could have some time to pay it all off; after all, they had to pay their rent, too. But they told him he would have to pay it back, and that if he didn't, they would make him.

Patrick's athair had to work very hard, but he just couldn't make enough money. His mathair helped as much as she could, and one day his parents told him that he needed to make some money, too, or they would be kicked out of their house. He had seen the newsies, and he decided that would be a fairly easy way to make money. The men were looking for his fathher now, but they kept the door locked at all times. Patrick changed his name to Patch and got rid of his sling. The sling was too easy to spot, and anyone who his father owed money would try to take it from him. And they would probably succeed.

But then something unexpected happened. Patch's athair got fired from his factory job. His mathair got pregnant again and had to quit her job. Patch was the only source of money now. His athair was still drinking.

Just when Patch had made enouh money to pay off a fair amount of his athair's debt, the man took his son's money. To buy more alcohol. Patch was broke.

And now, here he was, lying in bed, unable to help his family.


	12. Chapter 12

**I own nothing. **

Patch explored his surroundings without moving or opening his eyes. He was lying in a bed with a thin mattress; he could feel the slats underneath him. There was a thin blanket over his body, and he still had his clothes on. That was good; it meant that wherever he was they probably hadn't seen his scarred left arm. The right side of his face felt stiff, as though something had dried on it, and there was a bandage on his head. He wondered why.

It was fairly cool in the room, and there was the sound of someone coming up the stairs. He could feel someone else's presence next to him. As the footsteps came closer, he heard muffled groans from places across the room. It must be sort of big, he thought. Where was a place this big he might be?

The footsteps came over to his bed, and he heard someone say quietly in an exhausted voice, "Shh. He sleepin', Klopper. 'E 'ad a rough night."

"Ya don't look too great yaself, Kid Blink." Kid Blink. He was the one with the eyepatch.

A loud yawn. "Didn' sleep at'all. Don' t'ink I'll sell taday. I gots enough money ta take da day off."

"Awright, I'll be quiet as I ramble aroun' da House an' clean up da millions o' messes you boys make..." The voice wandered off, shouting at other people.

As soon as it was quiet again, Patch heard Kid Blink walk off and collapse dramatically on the bed next to the one Patch was in. "Wake me up if you wake up," he mumbled in Patch's general direction, and a few minutes later Patch could hear him snoring. It was then that he opened his eyes.

It was fairly light in the room, and it made his headache worse. There were a bunch of bunkbeds in the room, with blankets and pillows scattered on the floor where they had been tossed as the boys got out of bed. He saw a few random items of clothing as well. He wondered again where he was.

Forgetting himself, he indulged in a stream of Irish. "Mar? Mise riachtanais go gabh baile!" Despite himself, tears welled up in his eyes. Where was he, and why did he hurt, and why couldn't he remember any English? He had made out a few words in the two people's conversation, but he couldn't remember anything else. Why? Maybe all his brains had spilled out of his ears, and that was why his head hurt...

* * *

Jack couldn't concentrate. He had hated leaving Patch in the Lodging House; the boy looked so small in the bed, unmoving... But he didn't have enough money to skip selling. He hadn't done too well the last few days; nothing exciting was happening, and he was having to stretch his creativity to the limits to sell anything. A few of the boys hadn't gotten huge tips for their papers from the rich people who pitied "the poor boys". Blink, the lucky duck, had gotten a whole quarter for one paper! That was why he was staying at the House. Jack cursed him in his mind, but he didn't really mean it. He knew Patch was in capable hands; Blink's dad had been a doctor.

He sighed. Shouted out another headline. Sold another pape. He'd been doin this for so many years, it was all routine. He just had to watch out for the bulls.

Finally, an hour after lunch, he sold the last of his original fifty papes. He hadn't gone with his usual hundred because he wanted to get back sooner. He would just skip lunch today so he'd have enough money to buy tomorrow.

When he was back in the Lodging House he went straight to Blink's bed. Patch was lying in it with wide, terrified eyes darting anxiously about the room. "Patch?" Jack asked, and the boy started.

"A?" he asked nervously. "A?"

"Huh? English, kid, Jack don' speak no Irish."

"Jack?" Patch thought for a moment while Jack watched in concern. What was going on?

At that moment, it was like a lightbulb went off in Patch's head, illuminating all the dusty corners with hidden memories. He remembered all the English he had learned in his eight years in America, all the Irish, and what had happened last night. He winced and touched his head. Ouch.

"Jack?" he repeated again. "Where am I?"

The older boy's relief showed on his face. "Youse in da Newsboy Lodgin' House o' 'Hattan. It's where most o' us stay da night. Or da day," he added, glancing over at Blink, who was sprawled in a most undignified manner on the bed next to them.

Patch looked alarmed. "Ye mean I didna go home las' night?" he cried, loud enough to wake Blink up.

"Huh? Wha' happened?" he mumbled. Jack shot him a quick glare.

"Nuthin'. Go back a sleep, ya bum."

"Whatevah you say..." He obeyed.

Jack turned back to Patch to see the boy pushing the covers off hurriedly, then suddenly gasp in pain and cradle his head in his hands. "Ow..." he mumbled. "Seo athrú chun donachta..." He looked up at Jack, his eyes watering. "When kin I go home?" he asked desperately.

"I dunno."

"Find out!" Patch dropped his head into his hands again. Jack shrugged.

"Blink! Get up! Come on!"

Blink started. "What now?" he snapped irritably. "Ise da one dat was up all night!"

"Patch wants ta know when 'e can go home."

Blink got up, rubbed his eye, and examined the small Irish boy. "Ya shouldn' 'ave sat up like dat," he admonished. "Youse jus' gonna hoit yaself doin' dat." He turned to Jack. "I guess latah taday. Ya know, dis evenin' o' sumptin."

"No! I have to leave _now!"_

"How come?" Jack asked, confused.

"Because I have to go home! They need meh!"

"Who?"

"Does it mattah?" Patch turned his head to look at Kid Blink. "Tell him to let meh go home!"

"Well..." Blink said slowly. "I guess if Jack goes wit' ya, you can leave in less dan a hour, but ya gotta be careful."

"Just so that I kin go home."

"Whatevah you say, kid."


	13. Chapter 13

**Okay, this is REALLY short, but I have this plan, and... well... don't hurt me, okay? The next chapter's coming. I have it all planned out... Hehehe... I think... I own nothing. **

In another hour Patch was up and tottering unsteadily about the room. "I'm _fine,"_ he insisted. "It's jest gonna take meh a minu'e."

"If ya say so," Jack replied, watching him carefully. "Well, den, let's go."

Patch told Jack which ways to go ("Left here, an then weh go right up there"). They went slowly, but after about ten minutes Patch was incredibly pale.

"Are ya suah(sure) you're awright?" Jack asked. Patch just sighed impatiently and kept walking. Jack followed.

A few minutes later they reached a corner. Jack could see some cheap, run-down apartment buildings lining the street. Patch stopped and turned to face hi, a queer expression on his face. "Ye hafta go now," he said quietly.

"What?" Jack protested. "But yer too weak ta go much farther."

"It's not fah. I kin make it meself. Get outta here."

"But-"

"No! Jack, ye hafta leave! Ye canna come any fahther! Please!" Patch sounded desperate.

"Fine," Jack snapped. Then he sighed. "Don' come sellin' tamorrow. Youse'll jus' hoit yaself."

"But I ha-"

"_Don't. _If ya do, Ise'll march ya straight back ovah heah. You can come da day aftah tamorrow, but not tamorrow. Okay?"

Patch sighed. "Okay."


	14. Chapter 14

**Another short chapter, and I know it's been, like, way too long. :P But I actually do hav a vague story/plotline/thingy lurking in the back of my head, so... yeah. Sorry and stuff. I own nothing. **

Two days later Patch came through the gates. "Hi, Patch!" Boots cried exitedly. "Where were ya yestahday?"

"I was sick," Patch replied easily. "Hi, Cowboy," he said as he walked past Jack and up to the window. He reached a hand into his pocket and put twelve cents on the counter. "Twenteh-four," he said sadly. Weasel shrugged and handed them over.

"Hey, Patch, why aren't ya getting a lotta papes like ya us'ally do? Dat's barely any!" Boots exclaimed.

Patch just shrugged.

"Hey, hey, I know!" Boots cried. "You can borrah (borrow) some from me! I t'ink I gots a' extra dime in heah somewheres..." He started rummaging through his pockets. "Ah-ha! Here ya go!"

But Patch was shaking his head wildly. "No, no... I- I won't! I won' take it!"

"But come on, twen'y four? Youse gonna starve!"

"No! I won'a take the money!" All he could think about was his father, so deep in debt... "I-I'm goin' to... to go sell now." And he ran off.

"What was dat about?" Boots asked no one in particular, clearly confused. Jack just shrugged, for he was still slightly angry at Patch, though he wouldn't admit it.

"'E's been weird lately. 'Appens to da best of us."

"Yeah, I guess so..."

Jack went to go sell his papers, hoping to see Patch. Finally he saw the small red head calling out headlines in his Irish accent. "Extray, extray! Robbery! Beatin's! Will you be nayxt (next)?"

Jack walked up to him, and Patch seemed to deflate when he saw him. "Don't even ask," he said, almost before Jack could open his mouth. "I won'a tell ye."

"Why not?" Jack asked, trying to stay calm.

"Because some secrets ar'n'a mine."

"Den whose are dey?"

Patch looked up at him sadly. "That's a secret, too."

Jack walked away in anger and disgust.


	15. Chapter 15

**Hi, everyone. Can I get some prayers for my brother? There's this girl that he really likes, and she told him she really liked him too, but the whole time she had a boyfriend at her school. He's taking it kind of hard, and I'm worried about him. His name is Ben D. And her name is Lindy W. Thanks. I appreciate it. **

For a week nothing interesting happened. Patch came every day except Sunday to sell his papers, and had a reading lesson with Jack afterwards. Neither of them spoke about anything that had happened lately.

Then on Wednesday Patch came through the gates with dark circles under his eyes. He yawned widely and stumbled slightly coming through. Blink, who was standing nearby, caught him on the arm and whispered something to him. Patch his head. "Nay, nay, it's nothing to do with that..."

He walked up to the counter. "Forteh." He sat down quickly after getting them.

He yawned again. "Mornin', Jack."

"G'mornin'. Ya feelin' okay? Ya head hoit?"

"Nay. I just... didn'a sleep well."

Jack grunted and stood to walk away when he heard a small choking, gasping noise behind him. He turned to see Patch staring at the front page, his face colorless. He frowned and looked at his own copy. "Unknown man found moidahed (murdered) on Bakah street," he read. He looked at the pictures. They were fairly gruesome; one was of a man's body, covered in knife wounds and blood. He could see a broken beer bottle lying next to his head. The other was a close up of his face. He bore a slight resemblance to...

"Patch."

"I have to go." Barely more than a whisper, his voice sounded as though he was going to be sick. He looked like it, too. He staggered towards the gate as quickly as he could. He left his papers.

"What's wrong wid 'im _now?" _It was Kid Blink. Jack had to admit, Patch had been running away from the area a lot in the past two weeks. He held up the picture.

"Looks like Patch, don' 'e?"

Blink cursed under his breath. Then his face softened. "Poor kid. I remembah when my my pop... Nevah mind. So what're ya gonna do about it?"

Jack rolled up the paper. "Much as I can."

* * *

Patch had wondered why his father didn't come home last night. He had thought that maybe the man was just too drunk to be able to walk two feet unsupported. Or that maybe he was passed out in some alleyway. Or a million other derogatory thoughts. He had never even imagined...

He couldn't bring himself to go home. He knew he had to tell his mother at some point, but right then the shock was still to great, leaving him reeling. He wanted to go to the roof, but his sense of direction seemed to be off. His feet pounded a rhythm. _Man found murdered on Baker street, man found murdered on Baker street, man found murdered on Baker street..._

Finally, he found the street. He hadn't really meant to come here, but it was just something he did. His house was only two blocks down. His father had been going home.

But bringing beer with him.

He shook his head to get the thought out. His father was dead, but he didn't want to remember him as an alcoholic who had ruined Patch's life. He wanted to remember those few times when he had been a real father. When Patch could ask a question without getting screamed at. Or fall asleep listening to his father tell a story instead of the sounds of his mother sobbing. Or... or... he could only think of a few instances.

He saw the swarm of policeman and passers-by. A few policeman were holding people back, to keep them from messing up some evidence. Most were examining the body. Some were off to the side, descussing something gravely. Had he thought of it, he might have asked one of the police officers to help him and his family. But he didn't.

What cought his attention after a few minutes of horror was the two men standing there, staring at him intensely. He ducked his head in terror, then turned and ran.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sorry 'bout the long absence. And the overly short chapter. No excuse but laziness. I own nothing.**

Jack couldn't bring himself to use the headline, knowing that it might be Patch's father. Or maybe brother, or cousin, or just a close friend. But no, Patch didn't have close friends... It was painful losing anyone close in your life, and Jack would know. But to find out in that manner... He shivered. He sold as he walked, using other minor stories. Most people had heard of the murder already, so he was selling very well. At this rate he would be sold out by lunch time.

He kept an eye out for Patch as he neared Baker Street. There he was, running away as though his life depended on getting away from the place as quickly as he could. Poor kid.

"Patch!" he called. Patch seemed not to hear him. "_Patch!" _This time Patch slowed down and turned to face him, terror written clearly on his face. He relaxed slightly when he saw it was Jack.

"H-hello." He spoke so quietly that Jack could barely hear him. He strided forward so that he was right beside Patch.

"Ah you okay?" he asked as gently as he could. Patch just nodded. "You forgot ya papes."

"'M not sellin'." He kept staring at his feet, not meeting Jack's eyes and not looking at the papers he held in his hand.

"How come?"

"'Cause 'm not." He was speaking so quietly that Jack leaned in slightly to hear him better.

Obviously, he wasn't going to get much of an answer. Jack decided to just dive straight into the heart of the matter.

"Is dis guy related to ya?"

Patch's knees started shaking. He took a few quick, shallow breaths and stepped away slightly. "I-I don't know what yer talkin' about."

Jack reached out to place his hand on Patch's shoulder. "Patch, _listen _ta me!" Patch just jerked away and took a few more steps away. He was breathing heavily now, grasping his left arm with his right.

"No!" he gasped.

"Patch! Ya gotta tell me what's wrong!"

"No! No, no, no!"

"Why not?" Patch was scaring him now. He was covering his face with his good hand and shaking his head wildly, and he was white as a sheet.

"Because I can't! I can'a tell ye everythin' just 'cause ye want meh to do so! They're secrets, Jack, an' they could get me family sent away. This is the only way we kin survive!"

Anger bubbled up in Jack's chest. He was tired of Patch keeping things from him. He wanted to know, wanted to help. But Patch apparently didn't want help.

"Fine." He turned and walked away.


	17. Chapter 17

**Hey, everyone, I am quitting fanfiction. Check my profile for more info. I own nothing.**

Jack was about three blocks away when he calmed down enough to stop and examine the situation. Okay, so he really did want to help Patch, but the boy wouldn't let him. That was cause for anger. He wouldn't even tell Jack why he couldn't. That, too, was cause for anger. Then again...

"You got ya secrets, too, Francis," he whispered to the air, before turning around and walking back the way he came. He would apologize, and then just have one of the boys watching Patch everywhere he went. As he walked he tried to imagine what Patch would say, how he would act, and realized that he truly cared for the boy. Like a little brother, or something.

Suddenly the slight breeze, which had been blowing away from him, shifted and brought voices with it.

A child's, high, frightened... Irish. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but he quickened his pace. He was about two blocks away when he could make out a few words, at least.

"No!... Please!" He was jogging now, trying to figure out if it was Patch. A block away. Once he reached the end of the street he needed only to turn a corner and he would be able to see what was going on.

Now he could make out a man's voice. "Not... anywhere... brat!" A sharp gasp of pain, then silence. Jack was running now, sprinting forward. He was about to turn the corner when he stopped.

He was alone. The 'Hattan newsies rarely came to this area, so there was no one to help him. He couldn't just go barreling around the corner and demand that they stop whatever it was they were doing. They could be dangerous, armed even. He reached his hand up to brush the hair out of his eyes, and was surprised to see he was still holding his papes. An idea came to him.

* * *

Patch stood there, staring miserably after Jack. His only friend, and now he was gone. He should have told him everything. Maybe then... He turned and started walking slowly in the opposite direction. Suddenly, someone grabbed his arm. His right arm.

_No._

He saw a man's face. It was the same man he had seen at the "crime scene" as the police had been calling it. "Heya, Patrick. Ya miss us?"

He decided to pretend he didn't know who they were. "S-sir?"

The man laughed. "Just touch my arm with ya left arm an' youse free." When Patch struggled vainly to move his arm, the man laughed. "How strange. Ya can't do it. Makes ya wondah... Ya know, kid, since ya pop didn' pay back 'is debts, it's up ta you, as de oldest."

"No! I don'ta ha'e any money! Please, leggo!" He tried to wrest himself away from the man's grip, but he tightened it until Patch moaned.

"Ya not goin' anywhere, ya brat!" He cuffed him on the side of the head, and black dots swam in front of Patch's eyes. He slumped to the side, his vision blurry. Everything was spinning wildly, and he didn't want to see it. He closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware that he was being dragged down the pavement, but he didn't really care all that much. When your head was throbbing like there was a stampede of horses running though it, you didn't much bother with where you are.

Suddenly he realized that there was someone walking calmly toward them. He hoped it was a police officer. Perhaps he would help him... He was vaguely aware of being handed off to the other guy and carried off a few steps when he heard someone's voice.

"'Ello, soir. Buy a pape?"


End file.
